


Painted in Pinks and Greens

by vyrantium



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Artist Sherlock, Artist!Sherlock, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vyrantium/pseuds/vyrantium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One rainy day, John makes an intriguing discovery in the attic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painted in Pinks and Greens

**Author's Note:**

> Best if listened to with [this](http://www.rainymood.com/) and [this](http://youtu.be/r2rIm_Td2Mk).

It was over a year after Sherlock's passing before John started to clean out the flat. He began in the kitchen, moving to the living room, and then collecting the last of his things from his old room upstairs. It was when he was about to make his way downstairs to brave Sherlock's bedroom, which still lay untouched, when he saw the square in the ceiling.

John set aside the box he was carrying to stare at the door to what he presumed was the attic. How had he not noticed it?  _Foolish, John. Even a blind man would have noticed that._ John gulped and shook away the voice in his head. After retrieving a ladder, John was inside the hidden room, and was immediately amazed at what he saw, once the light was on.

All around the room were the tools of an artist. The walls were covered in paintings, some of them no more than violent red paint splattered against a black canvas. The working space was large, no doubt covering the area of the flat next door as well, and the room was set up as a gallery, twisting and winding through the area.

The paintings nearest the door were oldest. They were bright explosions of greens and pinks and yellows and purples, with not much form to them. John took his time to examine each one carefully, to try to understand what Sherlock was seeing when he'd dragged the brush against the canvas so sharply. Eventually, the paintings started to take form, in many shades of blue on a black background. It was a while before John realized he was staring at the paintings of bodies, each one to represent a murder Sherlock had solved. John smiled.  _Always about the work._

And then the paintings changed. The first was of army greens, and the color of his favorite oatmeal jumper. There still wasn't much form to art, but John thought he could see the vague outline of a face that was strikingly similar to his own.

The next painting was pink.  _Very_ pink. The background looked like Pepto-Bismol, and a coat was painted in a bright pink on top of it. John smiled, and recognized it as Sherlock's tribute to their first case together. He ran his fingers over the painting, then wondered what the painting would have looked like if he'd not been there to help, if he had not run into Mike Stamford in the park. It didn't occur to him that there wouldn't even be a painting.

Silently, John moved to the next painting. Instead of the random shapes most of the previous had been, this one was of Angelo's diner. It was painted as if he was standing so he looked out the window on the front wall of the restaurant, with a clear view of the table they had sat at. It was void of people, but John saw his cane in the corner near his seat, and Sherlock's coat in the distance.

The next few paintings were easily recognizable. A completely yellow painting with a few black accents. One of the wall in the living room, complete with the smilely face and bullet holes. One of their chairs near the fireplace.

The next to painting made John freeze. After the chairs, there was one of the pool, except there was something very,  _very_ wrong about it. Sherlock was clutching John, blood pouring from a wound in his chest. Near the deep end of the pool was the Semtex vest he'd been wearing, and James Moriarty with his hand up, as if to signal to a sniper. The twisted look Sherlock had painted onto the man's face made John's stomach flip, and it was minutes before he could drag his eyes away from the painting as a whole.

The painting following immediately after didn't help John's stomach. Over and over, Irene Adler's face was painted, mostly from deep shades of red. He didn't want to spend too much time thinking about what that meant. The next half dozen paintings John recognized as ones from the case at Baskerville. The countryside, the inside of the lab, and a few of Dartmoor. Gorgeous paintings, really. John was surprised at how different they were than the paintings he'd first seen, and at how Sherlock had an obvious talent that he was willing to bet no one knew about.

A small voice at the back of his head was starting to tell him to leave the attic now. He knew what came after the Baskerville case. There were only a handful of paintings left, and he  _knew_ what time they were from, but something made John keep moving forward. He knew it was ridiculous, and his chest was tightening as he took each step forward to look at the paintings, but there was a small part of him that  _had_ to see Sherlock's last painting.

It was the last duet of paintings that made John break and leave him completely baffled. The first was painted to look like the viewer was standing on the roof of St. Bart's Hospital. John could see himself in the painting, a small figure where Sherlock had told him to stand. Had Sherlock been planning this all along? Had he known for months what he was going to put John through? Or at least long enough to paint the scene? Clenching and unclenching his fists, John moved onto the next painting.

The breath was physically knocked out of John when he processed what he was seeing. It was of  _him._ In the graveyard, where he'd stood earlier that week as a final farewell to Sherlock, hand on the gravemarker. In his  _exact_ position. Not even Sherlock could predict that. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand, brushing it over a small portion of the canvas. The paint was still  _wet._ He drew his hand back as if he'd been burned, and stared at the smudge mark. The style did not change, and there was a small  _"SH"_ in the corner. So it was definitely Sherlock. But that was  _impossible._ Sherlock was  _dead._ He couldn't be  _painting._

A rustle made John whirl around. In front of him stood a paint splattered Sherlock, his eyes downcast.

"John," spoke the man softly. "I owe you a thousand apologies and more. Please forgive me."

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to unlesshegoestotrenzalore on tumblr, who gave me the prompt that inspired this work.
> 
> tumblr rebloggable version [here](http://secretlyjohnwatson.tumblr.com/post/54736152393).


End file.
